


the theory of honey

by lalalyds2



Category: Chilling Adventures of Sabrina (TV 2018)
Genre: Established Relationship, F/F, Fluff and Smut, Hilda keeps bees because that seems like something Hilda would do, Praise Kink, Sibling Incest, Spellcest, we've all accepted our residency in hell so see you there folks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-13
Updated: 2019-01-13
Packaged: 2019-10-09 11:51:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,899
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17406386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lalalyds2/pseuds/lalalyds2
Summary: There's another farm expo.  Hilda actually sells honey.  Zelda is there to argue with hippies.





	the theory of honey

**Author's Note:**

> seriously. it's just fluff and smut.  
> inspired by S (you're allowed to read this one)

 

The jars are piling up.

Mason glass in the cupboards, on the counters, dotted all over the kitchen.

Sticky sweet amber in each and all of them.

Unusable clutter.

She can’t help it if her bees are over productive.

They thrive on her magicked sugar water till they’re literally glowing, and they fly as far as they’re able.

She can’t control their abundance.

Satan willing, at least it’s good for the environment.

Zelda derisively applauds her loyalty to the hippie movement and tells her to get rid of it.

All of it.

She’d like to argue, but Zelda has a point — damn her confounding knack for being right — it’s too much honey for just one family.

Too much honey for seven families.

Or seventeen.

She packs them up in boxes, stacks the boxes way up high in the hallway.

Wiggling past is a chore.

At least she’s got counter space back.

Now what?

It’s not like she can just leave them there.

Although...

No.

They run a mortuary.

A casket wouldn’t make it through all that cardboard.

Then again...

Embalming used to require honey.

She snorts and knows that simply won’t do.

But what’s good enough for King Tut...

 

~*~

 

It’s not until she overhears Sabrina’s phone chat with Susie Putnam that she gets an inkling of an idea.

A farming expo.

How novel.

_But_...

How to convince Zelda?

 

~*~

 

“Absolutely not.”

Hilda wishes she’d stop chopping up dinner.

A roast bakes as one piece, not a thousand hacked bits.

“You told me to get rid of it.”

She’s chopping carrots.

Her way decidedly  _different_  than Zelda’s.

“I did not tell you to sell it in a mortal convention. It’s like common peddling. Or worse,” she shudders. “A farmer’s market.”

“Those are quite lovely, actually. Good for a Saturday afternoon.”

“No wonder you’re still excommunicated.”

Hilda wants to poke her in the ribs for that reminder, but she decides against it.

Zelda hasn’t been particularly murder-inclined since they started  _things_ , but still.

Better not risk it.

Not while she’s got a knife and looking rather stab-happy.

Hilda sighs instead.

Chops her carrots a slight degree slower.

She’s on a new trip.

Its name is guilt.

A pause beside her.

“I’m not coming with.”

She tries not to pout.

“On what reasons?”

“All of them.”

She pouts in earnest.

Her chopping slows to nothing.

 

~*~

 

Long-suffering sigh.

“Just over night?”

“Just one night.”

“Fine.”

Hilda grins.

Guilt trips work in exciting ways.

 

~*~

 

“Now would you please stop attacking that poor roast? Satan’s sake, it’s already dead.”

“We’re not making roast. We are making stew.”

“Since when?”

“Since you, sister  _dear_ , decided we should willingly submit ourselves to mortal nonsense for an entire weekend. I need something to stab.”

A beat.

“Stew sounds lovely.”

 

~*~

 

She and Ambrose pack the car.

Zelda supervises from the porch.

Sabrina is also on the porch, but at least she’s got an excuse.

Homework is on her lap, but questions are in her eyes.

That bodes trouble.

“Aunt Zee, in demonology they mentioned that some demons are welcome in the world. Why? Wouldn’t it be safer if all demons were gone?”

“Well some are more benevolent than others, like Ose, who grants knowledge, or Malphas who builds great structures. There are fools out there who believe owning demons will own their abilities. But Sabrina,”

Zelda’s tone turns admonishing. “Demons will only trick you.”

“I know, Auntie.”

“Do not even think about summoning them.”

“I  _know_ , Auntie.”

Zelda is about to lecture, because Sabrina is far from reassuring, but Hilda interrupts.

“If we don’t get a move on right now, absolutely everybody’s going to be late for absolutely everything.”

Zelda’s eye roll is award worthy.

She walks down the steps slowly, on purpose to Hilda’s indignant huffing, and turns back to Sabrina.

Sabrina can’t tell if she’s sassing or stalling.

“Pray to Satan we survive your Aunt’s hysterics, Sabrina. With Spellman luck, one of us will wind up dead or stranded within the hour.”

 

~*~

 

Silence in the car.

Zelda’s looking longingly in the rear-view mirror.

Hilda gives her five minutes before she breaks.

She lasts five seconds.

“We should go back. Sabrina’s questions were far from purely academic curiosity.”

“She’ll be fine, Zelds. She’s at the Academy all weekend as it is, and Ambrose will be there too.”

“And that’s supposed to fill me with confidence?”

“It’s supposed to reassure you.”

“It didn’t.”

“I’ll turn on the radio then.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“You sing.”

“That’s what you’re supposed to do.”

“Not the way you do it.”

 

~*~

 

Zelda’s right again, damnit. It  _is_  a glorified farmer’s market.

There’s a tractor in the corner.

Not for sale.

Zelda’s horror at it all is almost worth the fuss and disappointment.

Almost.

“Peddle your wares, sister, and soon. I don’t want to be here longer than I have to.”

“It would go faster if you helped.”

She splutters, because for once, she doesn’t have a comeback.

She grabs a jar. And helps.

Hilda tries not to be smug.

She can’t help the little bit that slips through.

She doesn’t get to enjoy it for very long.

The event planner needs her signature on something, which is probably more important than gloating. But not by much.

It’s one of those rare occasions Hilda resents the mortals and their incessant need for paperwork.

 

~*~

 

When she returns, everything is settled, and neat, and lovely.

Zelda’s currently shifting things minutely to the left.

Perfectionist.

The meticulous witch so completely absorbed in the job, she doesn’t look up as Hilda comes to her side.

“This looks wonderful, Zelds! Absolutely marvelous.”

She doesn’t turn from her task, but Hilda can see the flushed pink on her neck.

A very pretty color, one of her favorites. Especially when it’s there because of her.

“Yes, well... someone had to do it, considering you so easily abandoned post.”

She bites her retort, because she knows the onslaught of people about to bombard the stand, and Zelda does not need any more riling up before they get here.

She goes the sweeter route.

“Thank you, Zelda. Truly, I appreciate it. You did an amazing job.”

The genuine smile escapes before Zelda can tamper it down.

Her good mood is infectious. Hilda’s grinning as she gestures to the clipboard on Zelda’s left.

“Could you hand me that?”

She does. Goes back to her fidgeting with the jars. Hilda checks that everything’s in order, absentmindedly adds a—

“Thanks, there’s a good girl.”

The jars nearly plunge off the table.

Thank Satan for magic, or they’d be surrounded by honey and broken glass.

Dumbfounded eyes meet dumbfounded eyes.

“What was that about?” Hilda asks, mystified.

Zelda gulps.

The flush has spread to her cheeks.

“I need some air.”

She makes a hasty retreat, back stiff.

Hilda watches her go, shrugs, and puts the still-intact bottles back where they belong.

She checks the clipboard again, but the moment replays in her mind.

She’s almost reached a hypothesis on the whole matter, but then the market is running, the mortals are coming, and she is distracted.

 

~*~

 

She’s got a hypothesis.

It makes quite a lot of sense.

She doesn’t have ample time or environment to truly test and develop it here, what with so many people milling about, but that’s the good thing about dating your own sister.

You don’t worry about pushing some boundaries.

 

~*~

 

First step — observation.

It’s a little difficult, seeing as both sisters are busy talking to customers, but she manages.

Zelda gets complimented by a lot of men.

Women too.

But at least the women buy the product.

They praise her skin, assuming that’s what the honey is used for.

She preens, agrees, and says something to the extent of Hilda’s honey just having that extra special something.

That the stuff works wonders.

Almost like magic.

And Hilda knows it’s true, because she put it in there.

 

~*~

 

Second step — interference.

Hilda also compliments Zelda’s skin.

Her flirtation skills are a bit rusty given that they’ve rarely been used, but they do elicit a smile.

That’s it.

No blushing.

She’s undeterred.

Experiments tend to not show any useful patterns the first time around.

 

~*~

 

Third step — more observation.

There is something overwhelmingly entertaining about Zelda, in her dramatic colors and accent-gold getups, arguing with a woman in tan gauchos and single-strap Birkenstock’s.

“And you’re sure this honey comes from real bees?”

Zelda’s smile is tight, Hilda can see how her hidden fists clench, but she never falters.

“My sister keeps them herself.”

“Are the bees happy?”

“They’re bees.”

“Do they get enough flowers?”

“They must. We wouldn’t have so much overflow if they didn’t.”

“Did those flowers have pesticides?”

Hilda’s surprised Zelda’s head hasn’t exploded.

“I really can’t say. The bees don’t tell me each and every flower they’ve ever landed on.”

“I need to know I’m not buying stolen products from unhappy animals.”

Deep breath in, Zelda’s smile stays on.

“They’re insects. And trust me, they’re so happy, they’re incandescent.”

 

~*~

 

She bumps shoulders with Zelda as soon as the woman’s left, five jars in tow.

She’s giddy on her sister’s newfound patience.

“That was incredible, Zee.”

Zelda smiles in that way she does, like she doesn’t want anyone to know her lips can turn upwards.

“I still have half a mind to hex her into next June.”

“I’ve got the other half, then. She was a bloody nightmare. But you handled her so well.”

And there it is, that blush rising.

It is irresistible.

She kisses the reddest patch, the apple of Zelda’s delightful cheek.

Just a quick peck, but Zelda gasps all the same.

“And what was that for?”

She’s trying to look embarrassed, ends up only looking pleased.

Hilda can’t help but feel goopy inside.

“You’re just amazing.”

The breathy little sigh she makes sends tingles right through Hilda’s entire system.

They stare and stare.

Her fingers twitch.

Hilda wets her lips.

The wanting is always waiting, just under the surface.

But right now.

“We should...”

“Honey.”

“Yes.”

They get back to work.

But if Zelda’s pinkie keeps tapping the top of her wrist while they talk to other people, if Hilda’s hip keeps brushing against Zelda’s as she reaches for another jar, well.

It’s not worth mentioning.

It happens all the time.

 

~*~

 

She’s forgotten to do several bits of research, but she’s already found a conclusion.

She needs to praise Zelda more.

Surprised it’s taken her this long to figure that out, honestly.

But not just any praise.

She could go on about Zelda’s legs for days, her lips for millennia.

Doesn’t matter.

Hell’s bells, she could talk about the entirety of Zelda’s face with every breath in her body — even when she eventually ghosts, she could go on about that face till the sun dies.

Wouldn’t mean more than raw potatoes.

Zelda knows her beauty.

As a middle child, daughter at that, her physical loveliness has been a conversation topic since the moment she smiled.

To the patriarchs of this medieval society, it’s been a huge source of her worth.

What complete and utter tosh.

Zelda’s mind is diamonds.

Skill unparalleled.

Hands that could bring down empires.

Certainly have brought men and women to their knees.

Not always out of seduction either.

These things shouldn’t be discounted just because she’s got a face Botticelli would cry for.

Yes, Zelda’s a beauty.

But Zelda’s a terror.

And shouldn’t she be exalted for it?

 

~*~

 

She’s pulled from her romantically studious thoughts as Zelda glides down next to her, drink in hand.

They’re celebrating.

Only one very long day in, and they’ve sold every last jar of honey.

Hilda is happy because it feels like a hyperextended version of spring cleaning — invigorating, and always leaving her feeling a bit high.

Zelda is happy because it means they won’t have to spend another minute in that cursed convention.

Tomorrow, they’ll simply drive home.

Tonight, they are drinking.

Zelda takes a long quaff of her Old Fashioned.

Hilda watches her throat work.

She sets it on the counter, pushes it towards Hilda.

“I dare you.”

Her voice is husky.

Hilda’s knees forget to exist.

Glad she’s sitting down.

Gingerly, she takes the short glass. There’s a Zelda-shaped lipstick stain on the rim.

She puts her mouth on it.

Tilts her head back.

Whiskey and citrus invades her senses.

But also, a faint hint of...

“Zelds, you’re not supposed to smoke indoors.”

Zelda’s staring at her lips, where the Barbie pink’s been tainted by dark red.

She licks her thumb, reaches licked-thumb over to mix the colors better.

“I’m not supposed to do a lot of things.”

Hilda’s throat goes dry and tacky. Her lower lip feels like jazz.

“I’m going to need another drink.”

Their eyes both trained on each other, pupils blown wide, Zelda doesn’t even turn as she signals the bartender.

Hilda doesn’t look at him either.

“What can I get you?”

“Another mouth.”

“What?”

She can’t even blush, mind numb and tongue most exquisitely dumb.

She really does need another mouth.

This one is broken. Apparently.

“I mean another mouth _ful_. Of gin. Or vodka. Bloody hell — something clear that could thin paint.”

Her hand shoos him away. She doesn’t watch him leave.

Zelda is leaning in, so Hilda is leaning in.

The bar’s not even crowded, yet Zelda still feels the need to whisper in her ear.

Insufferable tease.

“I hope he brings vodka. I haven’t seen Vodka Hilda in ages.”

“That’s because Vodka Hilda doesn’t like wearing clothes on riverbanks.”

“Lucky riverbanks.”

Zelda’s teeth are right on the shell of her lobe.

Right, that does it.

“We’re leaving.”

“Oh?”

The minx has the nerve to look surprised.

Hilda stands.

Legs a bit wobbly, but she’s pretty sure she’s on the ground.

“Let’s go.”

Zelda remains seated.

“And wherever will we be going?”

It’s Hilda’s turn to whisper now. It’s quite fun.

“To hell, most likely. But let’s have sex first.”

The older witch shivers in her seat.

Hilda grins.

She knows the final words to drive it home.

“Now come on, be a good girl.”

Zelda’s out of her chair like a bolt.

They don’t wait for Hilda’s drink.

 

~*~

 

She never used to like the moaning in movies.

Faked sounds of torturous rapture, crude and fogging up the windows.

Hollywood needs to get laid.

Maybe then sex could be better understood.

But then she touched Zelda, was touched in return.

She now likes moans quite a lot.

She still thinks Hollywood’s rubbish.

 

~*~

 

She moans against Zelda’s neck, pressed up against the door.

That’s as far as they'd made it.

One step in, then Zelda is kissing her and pressing her up against the wood grain and using technique she really, really needs to praise.

It’s hard to think in words when it feels like Zelda’s got seven hands and they’re all in use, tugging off Hilda’s sweater, crinkling up her dress, mussing in her hair.

She hasn’t even had the chance to take off Zelda’s coat.

They stumble out of their shoes, Zelda’s significantly higher, and Hilda finally gets a proper look at her already rumpled sister.

“That’s a good height on you.”

“It’s my normal height.”

“I like it.”

“You are so strange.”

Their lips fasten again, like zippered hinges, or something more romantic.

Hilda’s hands are itching to touch her, so she does.

Zelda is smooth, resplendent, but if she’s being honest, the dress is scratching.

“I really do like your dress, sister mine, but it has got to go.”

She pulls down the zipper, it falls like it was made to do just that.

Given her sister’s flair for dramatics, it might have been.

“Better?”

If she didn’t know better, she’d say Zelda is pouting.

So she cups her cheeks and presses a very tender, very smudged pink and red kiss to that perfect forehead.

“Oh Zelda, you have got to know you’re already best.”

The next kiss is flooded with intention.

Zelda walks them forwards, till the backs of Hilda’s knees hit the bed and she sits down hard.

Gentle hands push her shoulders till she’s flat against the mattress. Hot breath on her throat, trailing along the V of her nightgown, fingers tickling on her hipbones.

“Sister, please,” she’s not growling per se, but her voice does have a certain, non-Hilda gravel to it. “Be good to me.”

She gets a kiss on the knee.

Then, the other.

Then, slightly higher.

Then, the other.

The zig goes zag, up and up and up.

Her hands reach down, until she feels strands of fine hair. She lets it twine between her fingers.

“You are a tease, but hell if you aren’t talented.”

And then there’s a tongue against her folds, she surges up and tries her best not to clap her knees tight around Zelda’s head.

Accidentally, she tugs the hair hard.

“Oh, that is _good_.”

Long licks along her labia, a thumb against her clit.

Her mouth is open but there’s no sound coming out.

Lips replace thumb, fingers replace tongue, she’s brought to heaven in gentle thrusts.

“A bit to the left, _yes_ , you’re doing so well.”

Bites her tongue, because Zelda’s moaned right into her, and the vibrations against her heat has got her head spinning.

She props up on an elbow, sees Zelda on her knees, her free hand between her own legs.

Her elbow gives out.

She comes with noise and shooting stars and two fingers still inside her.

The universe stutters every time Zelda touches her like that.

 

~*~

 

Nimble limbs climb on top of Hilda as she shudders out pleasure. Zelda tastes a hurricane of different forces.

Hilda closes her eyes, not tired, just feeling sensations.

“You are so very, very, very, very good at that.”

She is kissed again.

She hums, because she is happy, because Zelda makes her so.

And now it’s her turn.

She sits up, then Zelda’s pushed down, head supported by pillows, Hilda between her legs.

But Hilda’s not paying attention to the wetness there, she’s holding Zelda’s still-damp fingers, kissing up the lines of her forearms.

“What in Satan’s name are you doing?”

She’s laughing, because she’s relaxed and Hilda’s lips tickle, but there’s a hint of a reedy whine stuck in her throat.

“I’m admiring your strength, sister mine.”

She wiggles her hips, tries to bring them closer to Hilda’s knees.

“Well thank you, but there are other parts of me you could be admiring more.”

Hilda’s kisses up to her shoulder now, nibbling along her collar bones.

“I’m still in awe of you today.”

A jolt in her system.

She doesn’t interrupt.

Hilda goes lower, bites around her left tit, a thumb pinching the right.

“You arranged everything so perfectly.”

She’s tonguing the dips between her rib bones now.

Such an action should be illegal.

Or maybe halting such an action should be illegal.

She doesn’t know. She just knows she likes it.

A lot.

“And you held your temper against that she-beast.”

Mouth at the navel, hands still palming her chest, Hilda’s abdomen rubbing against her, she feels adored.

It’s more intoxicating than a drink.

“Hildaaa...”

She can’t help it. She has to whine.

She has to have her inside. And soon.

“In a minute.” Hilda soothes.

It doesn’t work.

Her hips can’t stop driving upwards, seeking friction or entry or anything Hilda can give her.

Even without stimulation, she may not last long.

Hilda’s words are doing weird things to her belly, giving it both a flipping sensation and also the desire to be fucked again and again till she’s sore and can’t sit down.

Hilda sits up, and Zelda nearly cries out in frustration at lost contact.

Fingers are warm on her hips, then down to her siren’s calling, stroking ever so lightly.

She arches up steep, only a hand splayed out against her stomach brings her back down.

“I must say, sister mine. You do exemplary work.”

And then she’s deliciously full of fingers and she rocks in time with Hilda’s beat.

She’s pulsing, being praised, and the world is hazing into a tight pinch.

She’s so close, right on that cliff of soaring ecstasy, wails because she can’t seem to fall off the edge yet.

But then Hilda gives a particularly hard thrust, fingers curling up, and says —

“You are a very good girl.”

White vision behind the eyes, Tchaikovsky in the ears, she comes in crescendo.

The world winks in and out of actuality.

She praises Satan for Hilda’s fingers.

She praises Satan for Hilda.

 

~*~

 

Round two has more hair pulling, more name calling.  

Affection raucous.  

Round three shakes the very night.  

 

~*~

 

The morning’s car ride is content and quiet.

Zelda can’t wait for a cup of tea and the newspaper when she gets back.

She wonders what Hilda will can next. 

“So,” Hilda’s voice is still post-coital mellow.

She hopes it stays that way.

“What did you think of the farm expo?”

She snorts indelicately, because she must.

It’s the only way to handle whirlwinds.

“It certainly wasn’t as mundane as I’d initially anticipated.”

Hilda giggles.

“You just liked what happened afterwards.” She leans towards Zelda, but her eyes stay on the road. “So did I.”

Zelda’s grin can only be described as the cat that caught the canary.

Which is to say, immensely satisfied.

Then, Hilda goes and ruins it.

“And we got to bond! Working together, as always, but this time — I learned something new about you.”

That stops Zelda cold.

“What was that?”

Hilda winks.

“Oh, you know.”

“I do not.”

“You have, you  _know_ , a predilection for a certain nickname.”

“I do  _not_.”

“Whatever you say, my good girl.”

Damn her body for flaring.

She blushes.

She is indeed sore.

Hilda laughs.

“Shut up, Hilda.”

She only laughs more.

It’s just kind affection, but her cheeks won’t stop burning so she needs it to stop.

“I’m going to hit you.”

“You won’t.”

“I will.”

“Well  _I’m_  driving the car, so if you hit me we’ll both crash and die.”

She contemplates that for a second.

Not the worst way to go.

“Zelds. No.”

She sighs.

“I’m very much ready to be home.”

“Me too. But,” Hilda looks over, and her eyes are ardently soft. “I’m glad you were with me. I had fun.”

She takes Zelda’s hand in hers, the fingers intertwine.

Zelda looks out ahead of her to the open road, but her voice is cashmere brandy.

“Me too.”

 

~*~

 

They come home to a hole in the roof and chaos in the house.

Deep sighs from the both of them.

“Sabrina summoned a demon?”

“Sabrina summoned a demon.”

They get out of the car begrudgingly.

“How did it even happen here, I wonder. Sabrina was supposed to be at the Academy.”

“I don’t know, but I’m sure her excuse will be pitiful.”

Hilda grabs her hand before they go inside the house.

“My love, remember. You catch more flies with honey —“

“Then isn’t it fortunate we’ve sold all of it?”

She kisses Hilda twice for good luck.

If the second one lingers a little long, neither of them mind.

“Let’s catch a teenage witch. And then we’re going to ground her until she’s our age.”

Hilda sighs, follows her sister in.

“Satan save us from  _that_  disaster ever occurring.”

And then, it’s just the house with the hole in the roof.

Outside, the bees start buzzing, looking for new flowers in bloom.

**Author's Note:**

> comments are honey, give momma some sugar


End file.
